Swimsuit Shopping

I can’t believe my mother is making me do this. Well, no, I can. But I, like, can’t. It’s just way too obviously an exercise in torture. Like you have to get a new swimsuit every single summer, cause having to go shopping with your mother all the other times of the year isn’t horrible enough.

I hate my mother far more than usual today. With the… the hatred from some Shakespeare play- like the fire of a thousand suns or something. Yeah, that’s it. I hate her with sun flares like I’m constantly burning but every now and again there’s a spike. At least I think that’s how sun flares work.

And it’s like she has to try on swimsuits with me, like it’s a fun bonding time or something, just to make me look worse. Her with her fully developed body and her stupid perky hair and her ridiculously Baywatch-looking legs.

I have the body of a twelve year old boy with stringy hair and acne that looks like bubonic plague or something. And then she makes me stand with her at the mirrors talking about how cute we look. I could smack her. Seriously, I could. Except that then I’d have to kill myself for smacking my mother. Although, honestly, I could kill myself anyway. Now seems like a good time.

And then when I’m all depressed and miserable after all this- as anyone who looked as horrible as I do would be- she’s like, surprised. Like she can’t figure out why I didn’t have fun. And like ice cream is gonna make it better? Yeah mom, let me just get fatter- then I’ll fit better.

And she’s like so freaking beautiful it makes me wanna just, you know, die or something. Like I have this handsome father with a pronounced jaw and gorgeous hair and my mom with her prefect body and perfect figure and here I am with none of these features. Like a xenogenic anomaly… or whatever the term is I learned in bio last week.

I hate my mother.